


adding shadows to the walls of the cave

by voodoochild



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Femdom, Masturbation, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Morning After, Mutual Masturbation, Verbal Humiliation, Victorian Attitudes, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He cannot remember a time he didn't burn for her. [Post-ep to "Above the Vaulted Sky".]</p>
            </blockquote>





	adding shadows to the walls of the cave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for seasonofkink and the prompt "exposure/exhibitionism".
> 
> Title from Hozier's "Sedated". Evelyn quotes from Shakespeare's Measure for Measure in the middle, and at the end from her speech in "Fresh Hell" about the legend of the Roman general and memento mori.

There is something about hotel sheets and the gentle slosh of water in a copper bathtub that makes him feel like a damned schoolboy. Flushed along the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. Body heavy and content in an illicit bed, the scent of sex still lingering in the air. Perhaps it's the illusion of freedom, the ability to be the man he wants to be and not the man he must be.

Or perhaps it's her: perhaps it's Evelyn Poole, beautiful and deadly and who lights his blood up like petrol to a flame. She had been intriguing at their first meeting, intoxicating at their second, and now that he's had her, all he can think of is when he can have her again.

He's a bit abashed - he hasn't been quite so forward with a woman of her class in some time, and he still is married. His other affairs were strictly discreet, particularly Claire; careful, crafted moments of stolen intimacy. Never like this. Christ, he'd kissed Evelyn in the _street_. 

And perhaps that's what frightens him about this: that he increasingly doesn't give a damn who knows about them. He'd promised Gladys a modicum of decency, more than he'd afforded her in the past, but Evelyn makes him want to shout it to the heavens. To step out with her on his arm, to get down on his knees and thank higher powers he doesn't believe in that he is allowed to touch this glorious, fascinating, brilliant woman.

As he struggles to wakefulness, he realizes she's in the bathtub - splashing water, low alto hum of her voice. He considers going to her, perhaps washing her hair for her or scrubbing her pretty back, but the bed is far too comfortable. Deep pillows and warm sheets, her perfume on the shams and her scent still on him and the sheets.

He should get up.

The bed is so damned comfortable.

He has to return home, there's work to do.

He hasn't woken up hard in years.

He supposes it's something to savor, after all - deep, drowsy pleasure, shifting his hips against the bed and pressing his cock to the mattress. The twinge in his back further reminds him of last night, of three instances of consummation that had each felt like divine grace. He doesn't consider himself a romantic, but sex is better with Evelyn than it has ever been with any number of harlots or mistresses. 

There's another splash of water, the cascade of a wrung-out cloth, and she moans low in her throat. She'd made the same sound taking him for the first time - lowering herself astride him and then riding him mercilessly. He can still taste her cunt, she'd panted and moaned and whimpered for more as he licked her, rare creature that she is, and he closes his eyes, presses his cock against the bed again.

Christ, how he burns for her, like nothing before. He doesn't remember being this hungry for a woman in his life, not in Africa, not Claire or Mary or Georgiana, any of the women he's had over the years. He could look at a woman in her altogether, rake his eyes over her breasts or her cunt, and feel less moved than when he first caught a glimpse of Evelyn's ankle. 

He cannot remember a time he didn't want her, didn't feel his prick stir for the simple thought of kissing her. Cannot forget the taste of her mouth. Her mouth - her sweet, pouted, upturned little mouth. Soft and pliable, and then at turns devouring. She'd matched his hunger with every inch of her, and begged for more, voice gone gratifyingly coarse and filthy.

The sheets rub his oversensitive prick, and he knows he has to stop. This is self-abuse of the highest order, and if he continues, he's going to roll over and touch himself, and then he'll truly be driven mad. He has tried to rise above his baser urges, since Africa; stopped the whores and the mistresses and the trips to the brothels. But Evelyn drives him out of his skull, makes him want her more with every waking moment. 

He cannot stop his hips from thrusting, nor can he stop himself from turning over. Cannot stop himself wrapping a hand around his cock, too-dry and yet painfully delightful. It's _depraved_ , stroking his prick in broad daylight, no goal in sight but his own pleasure in it. He'll be struck blind, feels as if he's nearly there already with the images assaulting his mind.

She's behind his eyes, appearing as she did last night. The silk drawers he mouthed her through, teased her into shivering and tugging his hair. Corset of velvet and whalebone the only thing on her as she rode him, sly grin on her kiss-reddened lips as she professed to enjoy the way he watched her at it. Unlacing her, kissing her small, sweet breasts, his palms covering them entirely as he entered her from behind. The way she curled against his chest afterward, gorgeously exhausted, limbs slick with sweat and lax against him.

"Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall, is it?" 

Evelyn, wet from the bath, wrapped in a white satin dressing gown with her hair slicked back. She looks like a nymph from antiquity, amusement quirking her mouth, and he stops cold. Sick-sweet guilt in the pit of his stomach, and her nose wrinkles.

"Oh my darling, don't stop on my account."

"Half-conscious lunacy," he says, removing his hand from his prick, beckoning to her. "Come here and let me enjoy the sight of you all wet."

She smiles sharply, shakes her head. "I don't think I shall. I think I shall make my presence in that bed contingent upon you returning to what you were doing."

"Evelyn-" he tries to say, but the sharpness turns to pleading in his mouth. He can't stand being so weak, of her witnessing his weakness. 

His vision hazes as her eyes bore into his, as she toys with the closure of the dressing gown. He can't breathe as she opens it to her navel, reveals herself to him. Stretches of cream-sweet skin, darkening marks from last night. The perfect imprint of his teeth set into the inner curve of her left breast.

"Malcolm," she says, voice low and purring. "I _want_ this. Won't you do it for me?"

Shame heats his cheeks, but his prick is harder than ever, throbbing and pressing to his belly before her. He cannot look away from her, guilt warring with lust. "I shouldn't-"

She traces hypnotic little patterns on her breasts, down the stretch of her belly, to where the gown is still belted over her waist. He wants to tear it off her, sink into her cunt, fuck her over and over until neither of them can move. He wants this unceasingly, endlessly and ravenously, feels more a beast for it than ten years of taking women by force in the Congo.

She bites her lip, cups a breast in her palm, and he groans for the sight. "There is no 'should' or 'should not' in this room, my love, only want. You wanted me, and you have had me. I want this in return. I want to watch you pleasure yourself, watch your prick swell and drip for your own hand. Will you deny me?"

"No," he whispers, scarcely able to contain his trembling. He rests his hand on his prick again, groans for the deep ache of it, for the heaviness he feels and the excitement he should not feel. "Tell me how."

"Slow," she says, rolling the word around in her mouth like it tastes sweet, and he obeys before he can think to balk. Presses the heel of his hand to the base of his prick, wraps his fingers around the shaft and strokes upward as gently as he can, considering the lack of lubrication. Evelyn hums in pleasure, and nods at the toilette chest on the washstand. "Perhaps the shaving soap might be put to a better use, mmm? Or the Creme Celeste?"

He opens the chest with his free hand, picking up the jar of Creme Celeste - boyhood follies have taught him that shaving cream isn't best put to sexual use. The scent of almonds fills the room, and he sighs as he slicks up his cock, Evelyn curling a hand around the bedpost and smiling indulgently.

Her voice is low and coaxing, as if he were a horse she were leading to stud. "Oh, that's it, my darling. You're breathtaking, you should know that. Positively mouth-watering. Slow, _slow_ , we've no rush at all. Let me see what you like. I'll touch you just like this upon our next engagement, would you like that?"

"Yes," he responds, utterly against his own wishes. She's a siren song in his blood, an enchantment, it's the only explanation for the way he obeys her and continues to stroke himself. His prick swells in his own hand, dark with blood, and she catches him looking at it. "Evelyn, please-"

"Hush. You're precisely what I want, this is precisely what I want. I love watching you, seeing you all flushed and desirous. And I think you like it too." He makes a bitten-off growl, and she shifts onto her knees on the bed, back to the bedpost, tiny little fingers playing with the belt of her dressing gown. "There's no shame in it. Man is a visual creature, my darling, and I can see how your eyes are positively fixed on the opening of my robe. Do you want to see me?"

A moan so loud, he nearly shames himself upon uttering it. Arches his back and thrusts faster into his fist. "Yes, Christ, Evelyn, let me see you."

Silk rising by inches, up her thighs, revealing the exertions of the previous night. Her bathwater has made the bruises he left from his fingertips and teeth even darker, and he revels in what he's done. She smiles, sweet and knowing, nods to his hand on his prick. "So long as you keep your attention on that delightful prick of yours, I shall let you watch a bit in return. Trust that I want this, Malcolm."

Her fingertips trail over her body, mapping the route his own hands took last night, running her nails against the tips of her breasts. He pants in his throat, wants to throw himself forward and kiss her, touch her, and she shakes her head knowingly. Denial has never sat easy with him, but he's approaching the point where his prick is in control of the rest of him, and he slides wetly in and out of his own fist. His eyes flicker closed for a twist of his hand, and Evelyn purrs.

"Go on, my love, that's it. Let me see how you like it. You look so good for me, all that power and hunger harnessed to my whims, to be let go only when I say. Isn't that right? You won't spend until I tell you?"

"No," he whispers, too far gone to disobey. His prick is leaking, throbbing, the bloodbeat of it eclipsing anything else, and he can feel himself riding the edge. Stroking faster and harder in spite of her instructions.

"*Malcolm*," she snaps, and his eyes open wide. The dressing gown is open, framing her body, the dark wet curls between her legs glistening. "Did I tell you to speed up?" He shakes his head, trembling, hand slowing enough to make him bite back a sharp cry. "Disobedient, my sweet. Is it that good, then? The slick touch of your own hand, your own spend, stoking the fire for the sheer hedonistic pleasure of it?"

"Please. _Please_. " And he's never begged a woman for anything in his life, has always been offered and taken what he likes. He can't bear her eyes on him, how the pleasure sometimes seems as fulfilling as congress itself. Perhaps he has been driven mad by it, after all, to spend the rest of his days a weak, shivering slave to his desires.

The heat of her at his side is like hellfire, startles him into a cry. She kisses into his hair, places her hand over his on his prick. Her voice is mesmerizing, hypnotic, and he feels as if he's floating on a sea of sensation.

"Chase the pleasure, Malcolm, ride it like a beast. No shame in it, for you are my creature. You have been since you first laid eyes on me. You shall bend to my will because you already have. I'm deep in your blood, my darling, in your heart and your very soul. You'll never know how far deep I've gone. Spend for me, creature, and we'll see if you deserve to forget this."

Climax is like a scourge to his blood, pouring himself out, spilling over his own hand. Evelyn gentles him, allows him to pull her to him and lose himself in her skin and her mouth. Kisses her with all the breath in his body, and all he can think of is the shame in the pit of his stomach, of what he's just done.

She presses her mouth to his ear, whispers "remember, my love, that you are a man. Remember that you will die."


End file.
